I had locked my car and headed toward the door of the gym when I saw the two teenage fellows standing outside the entrance. The one had a gold cross on a chain around his neck and was rubbing something on the concrete with his toe. The other stood with a cigarette in his fingers and blew a puff of smoke into the air. He obviously thought himself to appear cool; as cool as George Clooney walking down the red carpet at the Academy Awards. I wanted to say something to them. I wanted to tell them about my grandfather who I loved dearly. He had smoked all his adult life and died a horrible death from emphysema. I wondered if they knew how cool it would be in the mortuary and the funeral home when disease from smoking at some point took their lives. But I said nothing because I am not their parent and for all I knew a parent had already set the example. I have been told that stopping smoking is nearly as difficult as stopping the use of heroin. Perhaps it is, perhaps it is not. But, why anybody would want to subject their body to those toxins is beyond me.